Never Wear Gloves
by LysPotter
Summary: Nonexplicit femmeslash. NarcissaOC. Meghan can’t sleep. Something’s wrong. Narcissa can’t stay. It’s not safe. When their paths cross again, what will happen? And what about Cissa’s marks? 2part oneshot, 2 POVs. Companion to When She Loved Me.


**Disclaimer: **I'd LIKE to own this, in which case I could make it part of a short story collection and publish it for money! Imagine. But unfortunately I do not.

**Never Wear Gloves: **Non-explicit femmeslash. NarcissaOC. Meghan can't sleep. Something's wrong. Narcissa can't stay. It's not safe. When their paths cross again, what will happen? And what about Cissa's marks? 2-part oneshot, 2 POVs

A/N: This was inspired by Rutherina-hobbit's one-shot Hold All of Me, which is a m/m slash JP/SB. Nice story.

And now onto the story!

**Meghan's POV**

I can't sleep.

Something's wrong. My mind is restless, and I'm tossing and turning. It's too late to get up and try to do something. Hell, it's almost one a.m.! It's cold and snowing outside. No one in their right mind would get up at this time of night—er, morning—when it's in negative numbers outside. You'd have to have a death wish.

But I'm worried.

Whatever's wrong, I don't know what it is. It's the day after New Year's. Everyone I know is tucked safe in their homes. My brother is at his home, in bed with his arms wrapped around his red-haired wife with his son in the next room. His best friend is in his flat, probably sleeping off whatever he had to drink night before last. My best friend is most likely at home, probably sleeping. Her best friend is elsewhere, probably at the school, getting to know his new quarters better. Everyone else is at home, probably snoring their brains out.

Why am I so worried?

I roll over onto my side, look at my digital clock. 12:50. It's insanely late—er, early. I should be asleep. The house is warm, I have at least five blankets on, and I'm wearing heavy pajamas. It's dark as can be outside. Nothing's wrong in my little section of the world.

Is something wrong outside my bubble?

I admit I'm worried for her. My best friend. When she goes home, _he's_ there. Everyone pretends they like him, pretends they trust him, but really they despise him. He's gotten good at gauging this too, and he's managed to pressure her into who-knows-what.

I don't know.

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. Its continued dark blankness irritates me. I could count sheep. I could count cows. I hear mooing and baaing in the back of my head and I watch as the shadows around my room morph into animal shapes. My mind, sleep-deprived and hungry, is playing tricks on me. I hate this. Finally, I slam my eyes shut, listening as the seconds tick by, agonizingly slow.

It's going to be a long night.

As the clock outside chimes one o'clock, a knock comes on the side door, the one closest to my room. It's too late and I've just closed my eyes. I roll over onto my stomach and pull the covers over my head, sighing and nestling into the mattress. Maybe now I'll get to sleep. Mum or Dad can answer the door.

Because I'm asleep. Cough.

The knock comes again, insistent. I grumble and put my head under the pillow. I am not getting out of bed at one a.m. for some crazy caller that might be a Death Eater anyway. When the person knocks a third time, I hear a pained exhalation through my window. I throw the covers off, my curiosity now awakened.

Was this my worry?

"Coming," I say groggily. Obviously I was closer to sleep than I thought. I tug on my jumper and a dressing gown and fling open my door, heading for the nearby side door. I reach for the doorknob hesitantly, afraid of what I might find on the other side. A Muggle, bleeding to death after a Death Eater attack? Death Eaters, come to perpetrate a Death Eater attack? My brother's best friend, beaten to a pulp after he ran off to go see his family again?

I turn the doorknob.

A hooded figure is standing in the dark, white flakes dusting its black hooded jacket that is entirely insufficient for this frigid weather. I gasp. It looks…forlorn, in an odd sort of way. I think it is a woman, wearing a pair of blue jeans tucked haphazardly into huge boots that look far too big. The jacket is too big as well. Has she borrowed someone's clothes? Is she on the run? "Who are you?" I ask.

A dearly familiar voice answers me.

"Please…help."

It is strained, painful. But I recognize her voice. "Liesel," I whisper, barely audible as the hooded figure turns her face up and a little boy's head appears from inside her jacket. I still cannot see it, in the early morning darkness. I step aside and usher my best friend through the door. I turn on the light in the hall to see her face. She hasn't lowered her hood yet.

"Meg," her lovely, musical voice croaks. "I'm sorry…it's so…late." She tilts her face up to look at me—she's shorter than I am by a few inches.

"It's never too late for you, Lise," I tell her, my voice stronger than I feel as I look into her beautiful baby blue eyes. One is ringed by a rapidly-purpling bruise. Her lip is bleeding sluggishly. There are tear tracks down her face, crusting salt on her pale skin. Her cheekbone is already black and blue. Narcissa Liesel Black Malfoy has never looked so completely beaten. I look down at the tiny boy's face and see his face also tear-streaked and slightly bruised. I look away from his soft gray eyes that proclaim complete innocence and help him out of his mother's jacket. Liesel does not move much, but gives me a grateful look.

I carry the baby boy, who is strangely not screaming in the arms of a stranger, to my room, where I lower him gently onto my bed, tuck him in, and start to rub his back, knowing that Liesel is far too shaken up at the moment to do this for her son. Liesel is leaning in the doorway, watching as baby Draco Alexander Malfoy falls asleep. She begins to sing a familiar lullaby in her soft, cracked soprano. I join in, smoothing Draco's hair until his eyes fall closed.

I stand and make my way out the door. I take Liesel's elbow gently and lead her towards the kitchen. It's late, the elves will be asleep, and we'll be alone. I'll make a cup of tea.

In the kitchen, I sit her in the chair nearest the fire, using the poker to stir up the dying embers and adding a log or two. I bustle around the kitchen, lighting the stove and putting the kettle on.

"Meg," she says again. I immediately whirl around, dropping some loose tea on the floor. "Thanks," she says honestly. Her hands are still under the table. Usually she rests them on the table while she talks. I'm biting my lip. She notices. I suck it into my mouth and release it, smiling. I turn back to the stove. I still worry, but I'll let her tell me. I don't want to push her.

I run out of the room, to mine, and back. I have three extra blankets under my arm and my scarf in my hand. I put the blankets around my shivering friend and pull down her hood. She smiles gratefully as I pull the kettle off the stove. I pour hot water in each mug, and at the last minute put in hot chocolate mix instead of tea. Chocolate soothes the soul.

I put a few marshmallows in each cup and set one in front of Liesel. "Tell me what happened," I order. I never do things by halves. It's why I'm a Gryffindor.

She swallows hard. I say nothing, just offer a listening ear, my hands wrapped around my mug. She looks pleadingly at me. I look pointedly at her, taking a sip of my hot chocolate, my eyes never leaving hers. They're so entrancing.

I know in my heart that I love her. It's just hard for my mind to understand and accept. Plus, she's a married woman. So I make her chocolate, and heal her bruises, and hope she will always count me as a friend. I also never miss a good opportunity to shut up.

She takes a shaky breath. I sense a breakdown.

"It was Lucius."

It is my turn to sigh. I knew that was coming.

"I wanted to write to Andi, to make sure she and Ted are all right. It's been ages since I've seen them." She doesn't have to explain herself to me. Doesn't she know that? But I don't interrupt. She's talking now.

Her voice shakes. Her breath is labored. I know she's in pain, but I can do nothing until she tells me what's wrong. She needs this. "He came in while I was writing. It's uncanny, how he always knows when I'm doing something wrong." It's not wrong, I want to shout. It is your right to communicate with your blood. "He came in and he saw what I was writing. He knows the whole story—he was part of the whole story, he saw them at the park that one day. He wanted to know if I understood what I was doing. When I told him yes, he…he…he lost it." She pauses and takes a deep breath. "He said if I wanted to write so much, he'd let me write." She says no more about that. "Then he did what he usually does."

"What he usually does?"

She says nothing. She blinks what she can of her right eye, which displays a magnificent "shiner". I put my hands flat on the table and ask again, "What does he usually do?"

She looks away, a brilliant red blush of shame lighting on her cheeks as tears start to fall from her tired eyes. "He—b-beat me, and th-then h-he…" she trails off, staring at the floor.

I can feel my eyes widen of their own accord. Even my thickheaded spoilt self can tell what she doesn't want to.

I take my own shaky breath. "Lise, please don't tell me he r-raped you?"

I don't want to see the tears that flood down her face and the nod that she slowly directs at the floor. But I see it anyway.

"Oh…oh…oh, Lise," I breathe. "Why didn't you say something?"

"I—I couldn't. H-he said…said 'No one will believe you'. I believed him. Everyone does. But he's never hit Draco before. Never. After he did, I just—I came to see y-you, and I brought Draco with me. We Apparated to the Hollow and walked. I had to get us out."

I can't say anything to that. If she had told anyone at home, they _wouldn't_ have believed her. They would have believed him. And I can't very well tell her she was wrong to run. I would have run ages ago. I just grit my teeth and ask my next question. "Where are you hurt? And don't lie."

She sighs and pulls her hands out of her cocoon.

I gasp, the tears I was holding back spilling over.

Liesel's lovely hands, violinist's hands, guitarist's hands, pianist's hands, writer's hands, mother's hands. Her long, tapered fingers connected to always-gentle pale-skinned palms. The back of her right hand reads "I shame my family name", still dripping blood. Her left hand has the word "traitor" roughly scratched into the back. I immediately rise, my own hands pressed to my mouth as I root through the kitchen for Mum's emergency first aid kit.

"He's right," she says dazedly. "I am shameful to my family. I'm a traitor to my family values—"

"Think how many people love you, though, dear," I reply, trying not to break into tears. "Who's the one with no friends?"

"He has so many friends, though," she shivers. "They all like blondes," she adds in an almost-silent whisper. I trip over my own two feet and pitch headfirst into the pantry, creating a huge mess. She moves to get up. "No," I say firmly. "You are going to stay there, and I'm going to clean you up first." I root through the pile a little wildly, finding the first aid kit rather easily. I sigh with relief and pour some hot water in a bowl, adding cold until it is merely warm.

I sit back down. I pull out gauze squares and dip them in the water to sponge off the backs of her hands and inspect the damage. "Traitor" is so deep that I could see the white of bone in places. Her right hand is less deep, but just as damaging and certainly as painful. She's being brave. She's not crying; she's barely even moving. I lift her hands by the wrists, gently.

I kiss first one still-unmarked palm, then the other. She looks at me, her gorgeous eyes shocked and shining with tears and (dare I hope?) happiness.

I hold her hands by the fingers, displaying the backs of her hands to both of us.

"Oh, Liesel." I kiss her fingers. "Never wear gloves."

As she processes this statement, I use fresh gauze and antiseptic healing cream to bandage her hands well. When bright light blue eyes catch my deep blue again, I meet them with hesitation.

The broken, battered, wonderfully strong but frightfully timid young woman across from me cups my face in her bandaged hands. She leans toward me, her eyes sparkling as they do not leave mine.

She leans closer and closer until our noses are touching. "I think I love you," she whispers to me, her warm breath ghosting over my skin. I can say nothing. My mind is screaming that I love her.

She closes the miniscule distance between us, pressing her lips gently to mine in a chaste, loving kiss.

Fireworks explode in the back of my head. Now I know I'll never be content with a friendship. She pulls away after only a brief moment, staring at me with slight apprehension.

I immediately reach up to cup her face and pull her lips back to mine.

"I'll never wear gloves again." I can feel her promise against my lips. I smile into the kiss and squeeze her fingers gently. She squeezes mine back.

No gloves.

**Cissa's POV**

I can't sleep.

I'm alone in bed, my pajamas on and three or four blankets heaped on top of me. She truly takes too much care of me.

I roll over onto my back. I can never sleep on my back (or my stomach, for that matter), but right now I am not going to sleep.

I'm too busy thinking.

It's been ten wonderful but painfully short years now. Ten of the most absolutely glorious years of my life. Ten amazingly wonderfully perfect years, which I would not trade for anything, have passed.

I press the pillow to my face to muffle my smile.

We do not own any gloves. I doubt our recently adopted daughter and son Hermione and Harry will ever see a glove in their house again. I doubt little Eve will know what a glove is until she goes to school, Ray as well. None of their fingers will purple with cold, not while I am a witch, but no gloves cross the threshold of our lovely little home.

Yesterday was Christmas. The best Christmas ever. Shy, beautiful Hermione knitted us scarves that she gave jointly with Eve. I have vowed never to take mine off. I saw her make them (shh, don't tell), and she spent so much time on them. They're perfect. We love them to bits, but not nearly as much as we love her.

She grew up horribly, and she knows it now. We rescued her six months ago, but still she's so timid, our lovely little ten-year-old genius. This coming fall, she'll be going to Hogwarts. I can't believe I only have a year with her before she has to go to Hogwarts.

There is a knock at the door. I sit up slowly. "It's not closed," I call softly, so I don't disturb Eve. She's asleep on her cot in our room. She still can't sleep through the night. She's almost four now, but she has it terribly with nightmares. The door slowly opens. I know it's Hermione. She's the only one who bothers to knock. The careful brunette slips in.

"Can't sleep either?" I ask her quietly. She shakes her head. I lift the multitudes of blankets and welcome her into the bed next to me. She slides in, mindful of my "baby bump". She looks at me hopefully. I nod. She puts a gentle hand on my belly. Thanks to new advances, we're going to have our first child together. It's a girl, three months along. We're going to name her Meredith Ashley Potter Black, Merry for short.

Hermione looks up from the baby bump. Her head lies on the pillow and she watches me. She opens her mouth slightly, and then closes it with an almost audible snap.

"What is it, sweet?" I ask.

"Nothing," she says immediately. I look at her again. She blushes. "Just—just…when Merry is born…will I have to go back home?"

My eyes widen. "No, no, no, Hermione," I say immediately. "You are never, never going home. Never." She looks surprised by my dramatic reaction. "You remember what your mum and I told you about your parents?"

"Yes, Mamà," she murmurs.

"What did we say?"

"That they were wrong, and sick, and I should never believe them or even think about what they did to me. And that I was never going back, not for as long as I lived," she says dutifully. I put my hand on top of hers.

"_Exactement_, _chère fille_," I whisper to her, a smile on my face. She looks at me and smiles shyly. She knows what I speak of, she learned French at school.

"_Merci beaucoup, __madame__—Mamà_," is her reply.

It hurts to know that our girl is so thankful for the promise of a home where no one will hurt her or molest her. Most children would take such things for granted, like our Eve, who is a gorgeous child who has been with us for two and a half years now. But Hermione is still very self-conscious, and trusts only our family and her very best friend, Harry Potter.

It's been nearly ten years since Meghan's brother and sister-in-law were murdered by Voldemort, and nearly five months since we managed to convince Albus Dumbledore to release her nephew into our care. We nattered at him for years, trying to persuade him that Harry would be unhappy with the tyrannical Petunia and her beefy, inconsiderate husband Vernon. We found our last speck of proof in Hermione, his closest friend. With her helpful words when we adopted her at the Surrey orphanage, we rescued Harry James Potter from the Dursleys.

Sometimes I wonder what life I would have led had I stayed married to Lucius Malfoy, and Draco had stayed with his birth father. I know Lucius would have stayed out of Azkaban. I would have lived a horrible, abused life, and Ray would have too. I would never have told Meghan how much she means to me, and we would have stayed nothing more than friends all our lives.

The door opens again. Ray slips in, leading a very, very shy Harry by the hand. "Mamà?" my son whispers. Hermione rolls over to see her best friends. Ours is a very close-knit, loving large household. I beckon to him. He smiles brightly. He climbs into bed on my other side. Harry just stands there. It's been five months, and still he acts as though he's not sure he belongs. Of course, so does Hermione. Hermione beckons to him and he comes. He trusts her and Ray the most. He's especially cautious around adults.

I wrap an arm around Ray and use my hand to press a transferred kiss to Harry's forehead. He smiles shyly at me.

Ray starts to hum a familiar lullaby. It's the one Meghan and I sang to him that night, and it's the one we sing to all our children before they go to sleep. Hermione starts to sing softly along with it, her delicate soprano almost inaudible. I see her squeeze Harry's hand and he joins in uncertainly, his quiet light voice mingling with Hermione's. I join in with a harmony line, and Ray smiles as he hears us all singing.

Little Eve sits up in bed. When she sees us all singing, lying in our huge bed, she runs to join us, lying next to Ray, who has always been and will always be her first and dearest older brother. I see him wrap his arm around her out of the corner of my eye. She joins in with her little baby voice. It's very late, and I can't believe I am encouraging this, but I am an unconventional mother of an unconventional family. Out of a family of soon-to-be-five children, only two of them are mine, and only one Meghan's. They all have different backgrounds, different parents, and different memories.

It's snowing outside. I hear the door open and steps thud through the house. Someone drops something on the fire—I can hear it crackle. Similar stomps progress through the house until they come closer to the bedroom. A quiet laugh. Then a rich, friendly alto voice joins our song just in time for it to finish, providing a counterpart harmony. Meghan walks into the room, places a log on the fire, and kneels on the ground as four children rush at her. I sit up carefully, laughing. She was on call for Boxing Day in the Auror department, and work kept her from early until late.

I turn on the light, watching black, brown, blonde, and red hair come together in a chaos of hugging arms. She gives each of them an attentive ear and responds to their quick monologues in a witty, kind fashion. When they finish, they pull her over to me. "Look, Mamà!" Eve cries. "Mum's home!"

Meghan presses a quick kiss to my lips. "Sorry I couldn't get back earlier." She leans down and puts an ear to my stomach. "So, little Miss Merry, what do _you_ have to tell Mum?" She pauses. "Oh really?" she asks playfully. The children giggle. She has an arm around Harry, her hand holding Eve's. On the other side, Ray is pressed against her and Hermione holds her hand. Meghan's face is alight, her deep blue eyes sparkling and her mouth curved in a beautiful smile. We can have our difficult moments, but seeing the love of my life like this has always ruined the need for reminding me why we are together.

We're married in the wizarding world. I put my hand on top of Merry, my wedding ring shining on my ring finger. "Merry is tired, and thinks you should all get to bed," I tease.

As soon as I say that, everyone piles into bed around me. Meghan laughs, pulls off her boots, her warm over-clothing and her robes, and slides under the blankets, still in her pajamas. Everyone laughs, including me.

"_Mum_!" Ray exclaims, scandalized. "You didn't go to work in your pajamas?" Meghan winks at him and he rolls his eyes at her.

"Everyone, it's late," I chide. Harry and Hermione immediately quiet. Meghan, Eve, and Ray look at me pleadingly. It is common knowledge in my family that I cannot resist puppy eyes of any sort. But still, our children are not spoilt (quite) beyond belief.

I sigh. "Fine. You're on break anyway. Who wants to have hot chocolate and popcorn in the living room?" Meghan and Ray whoop loudly, Eve shrieking with joy. Our neighbors probably think we're insane. But, of course, they refuse to associate with us because of Meg and me. My wife, my son, and my youngest daughter rush out of the room. Hermione helps me up and she, Harry and I follow at a more decorous pace.

"You know," I say very matter-of-factly, "they'll have eaten all the popcorn by the time we make it to the living room."

"Well, we'll just have to make our own, then," Harry laughs. Then shuts his mouth carefully and looks at me. I grin at him and wink.

"That we shall, dear," I agree.

When we reach the kitchen, Eve is spilling popcorn kernels all over the floor, Ray is holding down the pot lid on the popcorn, and Meghan is surveying the damage.

"Well!" she says brightly. "Liesel's going to kill me tomorrow." I laugh and show Eve how to sweep up the kernels using a hand broom. She is fascinated with learning this new skill at ten-thirty p.m., and begins to sweep the whole room. Meg smiles and watches.

When the popcorn is ready and Hermione has finished heating milk for hot chocolate, we all help her stir in the hot chocolate mix. Harry and Ray carry the huge bowl of popcorn. Hermione and Meghan balance two cups of hot chocolate each. Eve and I each hold our own and each other's free hand. We all take comfortable seats around the living room. Harry plops Eve on his lap in the overstuffed armchair. Hermione and Ray lie at opposite ends of the sofa. Meghan and I each have a head in our laps, Ray's in mine and Hermione's in Meghan's.

"So who wants to read first?" Ray breaks the comfortable silence. It is family tradition to read a book aloud late at night with popcorn and hot chocolate. Harry volunteers. Meghan hands him our copy of The Circle of Magic: Daja's Book, by Tamora Pierce. It is the third book in a quartet we're working our way through. It's adventure, learning, magic, and morals all in one—everyone loves it. Plus, there's always a happy ending.

Harry begins to read, his voice quiet but not too quiet. He has a nice reading voice, I reflect. All our children do—well, Eve doesn't read very well yet, so we're still waiting on her. It seems to be an occupational hazard of joining our family. Like singing. Everyone in the family sings.

The Potter-Black family. I know when Meghan was young, everyone thought that such a family would come about in a completely different fashion than it did. Sirius Black, it seemed to them, was the man for her.

Little did they know Meghan didn't really care for men in that way.

I reflected back to the day I learned she cared for me as more than a friend. That day was both one of the worst and best in my memory—worst for what happened in the beginning, best for how it ended. I look at my hands. The scars are still there, and always will be. It is a part of whatever Lucius did to me; that this will never fade. I have healed, though, and they are nothing more than white lines on my already-pale skin. Meghan can always remind me that it is a relief to be a shame to the Black or the Malfoy name and a traitor to their values.

I have my own name now. A name that I can never shame, because it is mine. A name that I love, because it belongs to my family.

My family.

I listen to the gentle breathing of my family and the soft, fluid speech of Harry's reading, occasionally interrupting himself to ask how to pronounce a word. I lean back into the sofa, my head lolling back and a smile on my face.

A late night. Five children. Two mothers. A small house in Surrey. A fire, popcorn, and hot chocolate. A good book. No gloves.

My happy ending.

**A/N**: This is my BABY. I love it to death. Please review and tell me what you think.

If you're confused about Meghan, she makes appearances in all of my other stories. And she refers to Narcissa by her middle name of Liesel, something only she does.

Any other questions, leave a review and an email address or some way to reply and I'll get back to you!

Hope you enjoyed reading!

Love,

LysPotter xoxo


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